


They Turned Out the Flame

by A_Little_Bit_Broken



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cold, Cops, Death, Gen, Life is Cruel, London, Loneliness, Loss, Love, M/M, Mourning, Murder, Pain, Promises, Prostitution, Regret, Soulmates, Vows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Little_Bit_Broken/pseuds/A_Little_Bit_Broken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't help but think that he shouldn't have let him leave last night. That he should have tried to convince him to stay. He can't help but think <i>if only</i>... </p>
<p>He can't understand how life could be so cruel. </p>
<p>It isn't right. It isn't fair. </p>
<p>He's lost the light of his soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Turned Out the Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IOU_Superglue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IOU_Superglue/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Meeting the Last Time for the First Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067744) by [IOU_Superglue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IOU_Superglue/pseuds/IOU_Superglue). 



> I have no excuse other than it just happened.

Life is an odd thing, strange and temperamental. It operates on its own schedule, uncaring about the needs and wants of the person living it. It hands things out before you're ready to take them, before you know how to deal with them, and then, cruelly, rips them away again just as you've gotten comfortable, just as you've started to think that maybe, just maybe, you might want to keep this thing in your life. 

Pierce Carrick knows this, has had to deal with enough loss in his life to be sure of its truth and yet, this time, _this time_ , he can't understand it. He can't understand why -- _how_ \-- life could be so cruel. 

It isn't right. It isn't fair. 

He stands, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat as people move about him, talking, drawing, examining, _working_. Pierce should be working too but he can't seem to move. He feels frozen to the spot in which he stands. He feels _cold_ and it has nothing to do with the chill in the air around him that hints at a possibly hard winter to come. No, this cold comes from inside him, as if someone has replaced all the blood in his veins with ice water and snow, as if they've reached inside him and turned off the flame that fuels his very soul. 

A faint breeze finds it way into the alley, wafting over him. He shivers, remembers, lets out a strange sound that's part way between a humourless laugh and an anguished sob. 

A few of the people around him look up. He pushes his hands deeper into his pockets, wraps his coat tighter around him, sets his face in grim lines until they look away, and works at keeping it that way. 

He can't do this here. They don't know and he has no intentions of letting them figure it out because if they do he won't be able to work on this and, more than anything, he needs to be a part of this.

He takes a deep breath, steels himself and moves further down the alley, past the rubbish heap that has -- gratefully -- been blocking his view of the body until now. 

He hasn't seen him yet, but he _knows_. He's known since they sent him out, the dread that had settled on his chest was too strong for him to be wrong. 

And he's not. Safford's there, bloody and broken and ruined, and Pierce wants to just fall to his knees and gather him up in his arms and stroke his hair, his face, his arms, any part of him he can reach and just hold him forever and rock him and ask him why he's left him this way.

But he can't. He _can't_. Because no one knows that this boy means the world to him, that Pierce lives for the sight of his smile. He frowns. Meant. Lived. He's gone now. It should be past tense. It isn't. He doesn't know that it will ever be. 

Pierce takes in the scene while refusing to look directly at Safford's face. He doesn't want this image of him -- limp, lifeless, eyes dull and faded and glassy -- to be any more vivid than it has to. 

He knows it'll haunt his dreams anyway, torment him for a long time, that _Safford_ in general will torment him for a long time.

Pierce's eyes drift, unfocusing, over Safford's body. He's lying on Pierce's coat. _Dear God_. Pierce has to close his eyes, breathe through his nose, resist the urge to punch something, resist the urge to expunge the pain radiating from his soul with an atavistic scream.

He should have protected him. If nobody else is this godforsaken city, he should have protected Safford.

He can't help but think that he shouldn't have let him leave last night. That he should have tried to convince him to stay even if that wasn't what they did. That he shouldn't have just accepted it the way he always did. He can't help but think _if only_... 

He knows it's pointless, that there's no way he could have known what would happen but that doesn't stop the guilt. Because he _had_ always known this was a possibility, just as Safford had. That was why he'd always been trying to convince him to find more legitimate work, something safer. He'd even suggested that Safford just stop and let Pierce take care of him once but that suggestion had been met with quiet anger and a cold shoulder and Pierce had never dared bring it up again. It was obvious; Safford Creswell would be no one's kept man, no matter how much he loved them and no matter how much they loved him back.

The idiot.

Pierce sighs. He rubs his forehead, looks up the mouth of the alley to where life goes on for most Londoners just the same as it had yesterday, and tries not to cry. 

Mercifully, they come then to collect the body, preparing to take it to the morgue. Pierce stands aside and lets them work, looking everywhere but at them. The only time he looks in their direction was when they have already loaded up and are preparing to leave. As they move slowly off over the uneven streets he vows to Safford that he'll find the person who's done this to him.

~~~

It is nearly December now and the chill in the air has deepened to the point where Pierce thinks it has permanently seeped into the marrow of his bones and he'll never be able to get warm again. And it's not a wrong thought he thinks as he trudges through the streets. He doesn't think he _will_ ever be truly warm again. It feels as all the warmth in him died with Safford.

His mouth thins and he reaches up, tightens the scarf he wears more firmly against the wind and cold, before stuffing his hands back in his pockets and continuing on. 

People make it a point to keep out of his way.

He has a special destination today. He says special but it is a journey he's made at least once a week for the last two months. He's getting into the ritual. 

He doesn't know what to say when he gets there, so he just stands there, rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet and traces the name on the simple headstone with his eyes. 

He wishes it was nicer, fancier -- Safford liked nice things -- but it was all he could afford. He supposes though that it's better than nothing and definitely better than the alternative, which for Safford who had no family was an unmarked grave in the far reaches of a church cemetery.

Pierce hadn't been able to stand that. People had found it odd when he'd insisted on claiming the body but he hadn't cared. He'd had him buried properly or as properly as he could given circumstance. 

He sighs. Closes his eyes. "Sorry, Safford. I'm so sorry. I wanted to come by and tell you I got him, that that last lead I told you about had panned out but..." He scrubs at his face, sighs again, makes a sort of hiccuping sound in the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like a broken off sob and rubs at his eyes. 

"I'll find him though," He continues, his voice trembling and slightly reedy. "I won't ever stop. I'll find him for you. I'll make him pay and then I'll come to you." He turns his head up to the sky, gives a pained laugh. "You have no idea how much I miss you. I can't even begin to explain. I wish I'd told you before. I wish I'd told you just how much you meant to me, how much I loved you, how much you illuminated my life." He rubs a hand against his thigh. "Well, you know, better late than never, right?"

There's no answer and Pierce doesn't expect one.

~~~

It's less than five years before Pierce occupies the space beside Safford. There are still vows left unfulfilled. 


End file.
